


you outshine the morning sun

by herowndeliverance (atheilen)



Series: an aegis very essential [4]
Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton is George Washington's Biological Son, Angst, Canon Era, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, George Washington Rules with an Iron Fist (of love and concern), George and Martha Washington: The Parents America Deserves, Hurt/Comfort, I Care Even Less About the Timeline than the Musical Does, Lafayette is a Good Bro, Lafayette: Too Good for this World, Learning to be Loved, Martha Washington is the Smartest in the Room, Multi, Politics, Valley Forge, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-05-08 09:55:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5492954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen/pseuds/herowndeliverance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George Washington thought he would never have a son of his own blood. Alexander Hamilton thought he would never have a family. They were wrong.</p><p>Or, in which Martha teaches George how to tame a feral cat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. at the right hand of the father

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt at the hamiltonprompts tumblr: "The rumours that Hamilton was George Washington’s illegitimate son are true. Washington finds out, and knowing Hamilton doesn’t want that kind of relationship, says nothing. But then (disaster happens/the Laurens/Lee duel happens/Washington learns Hamilton is still reaching out to the guy he thought was his father) and Washington tells the truth. Canon or modern, ideally happy ending. OR Washington finds out after the hurricane, and ends up raising teen!Alex. How would things happen differently?"
> 
> I was the original prompter, and I would love to see ALL THE FILLS for this. Seriously if you're working on a fic with this premise, please don't let my posting one stand in your way. I will be first in line to read and squee over yours.

"Look at my son! Pride is not the word I'm looking for...there is so much more inside me now."

\-- _Hamilton,_ Dear Theodosia

Martha saw it immediately. Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton was nothing like her husband in coloring or in build, but it was there, in the intensity of the gaze, in the smile, the planes of his face.

He had George’s charm, bending low to kiss her hand and calling her “Lady Washington,” with an insouciant grin that made her glad she and George had courted when she was older, and less likely to go off her head. She found herself returning it in kind.

They dined together that night, she and George and his closest advisers. Colonel Hamilton’s charm remained in full force as he asked her about her children, about Mount Vernon, about how she found quartering with the army. Even some questions just this side of impertinent about her courtship with George, which the two of them indulged.

Martha suspected George would grant the boy any indulgence, if he would but ask. Mostly he didn’t ask…Martha noticed he never called George anything but ‘Your Excellency,’ or ‘sir,’ that he never once forgot his place. And because, after all, she was George’s wife, she noticed how that pained him. Hamilton was, of course, oblivious, but she thought perhaps the young Marquis de Lafayette saw it too, how George would almost but not quite draw breath to correct the boy.

Clearly something had to be done.

“And you, Colonel Hamilton? My husband cannot sing your praises loudly enough. I would know more of your life, where you came from.”

“Unimportant, surely, my lady,” the boy answered. “What matters is what I will do.”

He’d attempted to sound glib, but Martha saw the way the other aide-de-camp, the kind-faced one who hadn’t left his side the whole evening-- _Laurens,_ that was the name, Henry Laurens’ boy—grasped his hand, as though in warning or restraint. And more, she heard an unsettlingly familiar undercurrent of fury in the boy’s voice, which from her husband had always meant _this subject is closed, now and forever._

Martha didn’t press. She smiled and laughed, agreeing with her husband when he said Hamilton’s deeds would doubtless be extraordinary, and listened to Hamilton’s grumbling when he complained that George would never let him do anything at all, which she gathered meant he wouldn’t give Hamilton a command. This was evidently a complaint of very long standing, judging from the merciless teasing of Hamilton by the rest of the staff, Lafayette included.

And through it all, she watched George, who looked at the boy with something she could only describe as yearning. But there was nothing sordid in his hunger. No, he looked at Hamilton like—

_Like his heart’s desire, the thing he hoped for all his days, sits at last across from him, and he can’t reach._

But why? George had always wanted a child of his own blood, and she knew from his letters that Hamilton was fatherless. And the boy clearly worshiped George. Acknowledgement would be…tricky, of course, but there was no reason why they shouldn’t reach an understanding among themselves. They could sort out any pesky difficulties later.

Her mind thus made up, she bade her husband’s staff farewell with all the usual pleasantries. She saved Hamilton for last, and when he turned the full force of his smile upon her, she felt something akin to dread. Sharp-edged, that smile was, and not quite cruel.

Like George, indeed, but like George untamed, unfettered. As if no one had given him wise counsel before setting him loose to wreak havoc on the world.

_No, Martha,_ she told herself. _Don’t equivocate. He’s like George would have been, if no one ever loved him, nor taught him to love in turn._

She debated whether or not to let George evade her, when they had retreated to the privacy of their quarters and retired to their bed, limbs entangled, but decided it would help nothing in the end. She had no idea to broach the subject of ‘your illegitimate child from before we were married,’ but what came out of her mouth, eventually, was honesty.

“Oh, love, I’m so sorry.”

George had been married far too long to play dumb. His shoulders sagged—with shame? Worry? She couldn’t say.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t you dare apologize to me, not for my failing.”

“I would hardly call young Hamilton a failing, dear, really, aren’t you being a little dramatic? He seems like a fine man.” _If far too hungry for his own good, or anyone else’s._ She didn’t mention that part to George; he was too raw to take it as anything other than reproach.

“That he carries that—that do-nothing’s name at all is a failing, and—“ George was rarely at a loss for words, but he couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Shhh,” Martha said. “It’s all right. It will be all right. At least we’re not wasting time pretending you had nothing to do with it. Won’t you tell me what happened?”

“Martha,” he said, “God, forgive me.”

“You have done me no wrong,” she said. “Hush.” She paused, a terrible thought occurring to her. “You…haven’t, have you? He doesn’t look _that_ young.”

“No,” said George, and in halting words he told her the whole story, how he had met a woman on a voyage meant to get his head back on straight, after the disaster that had been his first command, how he and an island woman had given each other kindness and comfort when they both sorely needed it. And how he had thought no more of it, especially after their many disappointments in that regard—it was clearly no fault of Martha’s that they’d had no children, so he’d assumed the defect was in him.

Until he’d interviewed Hamilton and heard the faint traces of the accent he was so careful to hide. Until he’d asked his mother’s name— _Rachel,_ George said, _Rachel Faucette,_ with a trace of wistfulness Martha tried her best not to notice.

“And you’re certain,” she said. 

“As certain as one can be, about these things.” He left unsaid that you could never be certain at all, which was why bastardy was still a taint.

“How long have you known?” _From the first, like I did, at least on some level._

“A month or so.” And at Martha’s soft snort of disbelief: “I may have…had someone look into it. Into his life. Martha, he’s been alone, he’s had nothing, since he was a child.”

She couldn’t even scold him for that. It was only natural that the general would want to know everything he could about the boy he placed at his right hand. Prudent, even.

_George loves him,_ she realized. _Even if he had doubts about paternity, it wouldn’t matter. Hamilton is his._ She took a deep breath, steeling herself to it. _This man has loved your children as his own, with not the slightest complaint. You must not do any less for his._ Duty, honor, inclination: they all forbade it. “Well, he has us, now.”

“Martha, it’s not that simple…”

“Maybe not, but it’s still true. Isn’t it?”

“I have tried to reach out to him. He doesn’t want…”

Martha didn’t mean to laugh at her husband’s very real anguish. She didn’t. But George was so blind sometimes that she couldn’t help it. “Oh. Is that all? Darling, he’s a _boy._ Boys have no idea what they want, and even less what’s good for them.” Which he ought to know very well, from raising Jacky with her, but Martha wasn’t foolish enough to bring that up. “He will come to us, in time. All we have to do is make him believe it’s his own idea.”

“Oh, and that won’t be a problem at all. I see.”

“No, you’re approaching it the wrong way. Think of him like…one of those feral cats that used to skulk around the plantation looking for food. If you chased after them looking for affection, they’d get scared and run away. But if you left the food out and stood back, they would learn to trust you.”

By this point George was laughing so hard he wheezed. “Martha, _my son is not a cat._ ”

“Mmm. Of course not.” She permitted herself a smile at the joy that coloured his voice when he said _my son._ “What is he, then? Tell me about your boy.”

This was just the excuse George needed to begin a soliloquy about Alexander’s many perfections. Despite all their cares, this lasted long into the night, and he fell asleep smiling in her arms.

And if Martha cried once more for a loss she’d long since thought healed, no one heard her.


	2. we pick and choose our battles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW. I am humbled and gratified by all your kind comments thus far. I have read them each about 1000 times. I really hope you continue to enjoy this, and that I do not disappoint.
> 
> In this chapter, we get hijacked by my massive case of Washington-Lafayette feels. Also, there's politics.
> 
> -yr. obd. serv., A.

“In the place [Washington] occupies, he is surrounded by flatterers and secret enemies. He finds in me a trustworthy friend in whom he can confide and who will always tell him the truth. Not a day goes by without his talking to me at length or writing long letters to me. And he is willing to consult me on most interesting points."

\--Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette, to Adrienne Lafayette, Jan. 6, 1778

Lafayette wondered often if he were selfish, for having found such happiness in the face of another nation’s darkest hour. He knew it was not his fight, that whether their cause succeeded or not, there would be a place for him in France. His comrades, though, were fighting for their nation’s very soul, and Lafayette knew that was not to be trifled with.

And yet he had never felt more joy than he had in his time in this ragtag, poorly provisioned, hardscrabble army. There were so many reasons. First, he knew himself to at last be of use, to be contributing to a cause that actually mattered. No longer was he a mere noble ornament, condemned to endless ceremonial drills with the Musketeers, his lot in life to present himself at court over and over again, breed heirs, pass on the title, and die. Though the General did not wish to risk him in battle, yet he had proven himself, and he had hopes of being allowed to do so again. In the meantime, he was content to serve, and to learn.

The reasons for his contentment were his comrades on the General’s staff. Never had Lafayette had such close friends, whom he loved and who loved him in turn. Laurens and Hamilton, especially, were a balm to the loneliness that had plagued him all his life. In them he found companionship not only of the more prosaic sort, people with whom to share his triumphs and frustration, but also a deeper companionship, a kinship of the soul.

Which meant he did not really mind, when they got him into one scrape or another. He knew it was beneath the dignity of a major-general to fight with his fellow soldiers as though they were in a common tavern brawl, but there was a part of Lafayette that exulted in the transgression. This was the sort of thing he had dreamed of, as a boy, and he was not about to let it pass him by.

Besides, the little prick had really been asking for it, with all the shit he and his pissant friends had said about Alexander’s mother. And Alexander’s father.

So really, it was worth the bruised knuckles and bleeding lip. But when the principal reason for Lafayette’s happiness called the three of them into his study like errant schoolboys and began to harangue them, he almost changed his mind. He hated disappointing Washington more than anything, and the general did not spare them the sharpness of his tongue. 

“There is no slur,” Washington was saying, “that could justify your behaving in such a manner. These boys may be petty and juvenile, but they are your fellow soldiers, and you are members of my staff. If you assault them, it is as though I had done so, and this army is fragile enough as it is without that.

“But sir, if you had only heard the shit—“ Alexander blurted out. At that moment, Laurens’ foot slipped, so that somehow, it landed on Alexander’s. Hard.

The general did not fail to notice. His nostrils flared. “Well, Hamilton? Enlighten me.”

Alexander blanched. “Sir—it was so vile and baseless I have no wish to repeat it, truly. Speaking it again would only lend it weight.”

“Exactly,” said Washington. “You begin to grasp my point.”

Hamilton’s face flushed. “But sir—“

Washington visibly softened. Watching it pained Lafayette more than the tongue-lashing had. “I know you have a harder road than most, son. You mustn’t think me insensible of that.”

It was exactly the wrong thing to say, and Lafayette saw Washington realize it the moment the words passed his lips. Hamilton went several shades paler, but not from fear. He was furious.

“With all due respect, Your Excellency, sir,” he ground out, “you know very little of my _hard road._ Nor is it your burden to bear. Sir.”

“Alexander,” said Washington, heartbreakingly gentle, “here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to take a walk around camp, and you’re going to stay out there until you are calm enough to have a sensible discussion. Laurens will accompany you.”

“I. Am. Perfectly. Calm. And I certainly do not need Laurens to mind me.”

“Hamilton. Laurens. Dismissed. Lafayette, with me.”

Even in his rage, Hamilton’s eyes widened in alarm, and he pleaded with Washington. “Sir, Lafayette only joined in after we had started the fight. I’m the one who should be punished, not him. Not John, either.”

“I am _well aware,_ Hamilton. _Go._ ”

After Laurens had half-dragged Hamilton out, Washington sagged in his chair, looking as exhausted as a man twice his age. “Lafayette,” he said after a long, tense moment, “what did they say?”

Lafayette wished nothing more than for the floor of Washington’s study to swallow him whole. “Sir, it really wasn’t…”

“Lafayette. What. Did. They. Say. To. Him. The exact words, if you please.”

God Himself could not defy George Washington when he used that tone of voice. “They said…that Washington insults us by placing the byblow he got on his foreign whore above us all. That Hamilton’s presence on your staff spits in the face of those who died for freedom. Sir.” 

Alexander’s anger really did seem like a child’s tantrum, compared to the glacial fury that spread over Washington’s face. “I see.”

Lafayette’s bowels turned to water, and he swallowed down the panic that pressed at his throat, his chest. No one had ever accused Lafayette of cowardice, and today wasn’t about to be the first time. Not when the welfare of two of the people he loved most in the world was at stake. “Permission to speak freely, sir.”

“Careful, Lafayette.” Almost amused.

It wasn’t a no. “Sir. You must tell him the truth.”

“Who are you to dare presume to tell me what I must do?” Washington’s voice barely rose above a whisper, but it was no less forceful for all that.

Lafayette forced himself to keep his back straight and his eyes on the general’s, though it cost him. “Someone who loves you both, sir, and would not see you suffer needlessly.”

They had never spoken of it, but it had been Lafayette whose agents had gathered the information about Alexander Hamilton’s life, when the army’s funds could not stretch to cover such a personal expense.. Lafayette who had pressed the bundle of papers into the general’s hand personally. The general had taken possession almost reverently, cradling the papers as gently as a father holding his child for the first time, and fearing he might break if handled carelessly. It hadn’t been difficult for Lafayette to guess why.

“God, Gilbert,” said Washington, and despite it all something inside Lafayette warmed at the use of his Christian name. “Forgive me. I do not deserve your loyalty. But…don’t you understand that there is nothing in the world I want more? God, I would tell the whole army, if I could. I would tell the world.”

“Then _why?”_

“Gates, Conway, their followers…they think I want to make myself dictator. That I am fighting the war in order to rule, after. If I stood up and said, _this is my son, my heir,_ if I, God forbid, gave him command and made him my second the way he’s always begging me to do…he’d be a target for their spite.”

“Sir,” Lafayette pointed out. “He is already a target, and would be whether you shared blood or not. Today proved that, if nothing else.”

“He’s suffered enough for my mistakes. If I am to be ousted from this army, I will not have him dragged down with me.”

“Will it come to that?” asked Lafayette, horrified.

“Not if I can help it,” said Washington grimly, “but we balance on a knife-edge, and I can’t destabilize us any further.”

“Why are you telling me this?” asked Lafayette. The general would have been well within his rights to order him from the room for his impertinence.

He sighed. “I must ask you another favor. And Lafayette? I am asking, not ordering.”

“Anything.”

Washington smiled sadly. “There will be other taunts like today’s, and worse. Don’t…don’t tell me the names. God help me, I can’t trust myself. But…keep track. Notice any patterns. Be at his side, when you can.”

“I’ll protect him,” said Lafayette. “I promise.” He couldn’t help smiling—he had, after all, been a Musketeer, and this was exactly the sort of adventure he had always wanted—to be the brave chevalier protecting the dauphin from duplicitous courtiers.

“ _Thank you._ And Gilbert?”

“Sir?”

“Be careful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes: SO apparently during the winter of 1777-8, there really was an attempt to remove Washington from command and replace him with Horatio Gates. This was spearheaded by Thomas Conway (of "Meet Me Inside" fame, I presume), and the people involved were known as the Conway Cabal. This fic is set that winter, and will continue until at least the Battle of Monmouth, and possibly longer, though I reserve the right to mess with the timeline as I see fit.
> 
> Also, Lafayette really was a Musketeer. Because he wasn't already cool enough, apparently.


	3. tomorrow there'll be more of us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confidential to scioscribe: I swear I had already chosen the epigraph for this chapter when you posted your fic! I thought of changing it, but it was just too perfect! I hope you do not mind, and if you ever want to discuss feelings about that letter, I'm so down.
> 
> "Schuylkill," which Laurens and Hamilton reference here, is recounted in this fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5571534  
> If you have not already done so, I suggest reading that fic first, as this chapter will not make sense without it.

The truth is our own dispositions are the opposites of each other & the pride of my temper would not suffer me to profess what I did not feel. Indeed when advances of this kind have been made to me on [Washington’s] part, they were received in a manner that showed at least I had no inclination to court them, and that I wished to stand rather upon a footing of military confidence than of private attachment. 

\--Alexander Hamilton to Philip Schuyler, on his resignation from George Washington’s staff, February 18, 1781

Laurens pulled his worn, tattered uniform jacket tighter around his chest, in forlorn hope of keeping out the valley’s perpetual chill. Any effect the maneuver possessed proved illusory—the cold rested deep in his bones, now, and nothing Laurens could do would ever banish it.

_Should I survive this war,_ he thought, _should I against all odds make my way home one day, there will be a part of me left freezing here still._ The constant rain was like nothing he’d ever felt, its biting lash plaguing him, allowing him no surcease. At the worst moments he thought he could feel it eating away at him, wearing at his spirit until he was little more than a ghost. Today, the sun made a valiant effort to escape the cloud, but still Laurens could feel the creeping damp In the very air, in the way the mud tried to creep into his boots despite his best effort to keep it out.

_The cornmeal mush is getting to your head, Jack,_ he chided himself. _Makes you prone to excessive metaphor. Best keep that out of the general’s missives or you’ll never hear the end of it from the lads…leave that sort of thing to Alex._

Jack knew what he was, or more to the point, what he was not. Of their trio, Alexander was the brilliant one, the one whose mind shone clear from every line he wrote. The pen of the army, they called him, and the name was a fitting one, never mind that what Hamilton wanted most was to be a sword.

Lafayette was the paragon, all an officer should be. He was a gift to General Washington and to the Continental Army, and the fact that he knew it in no way diminished his worth. Laurens knew, if he were ever given the chance, he would follow Lafayette with every bit as much pride as he did Washington. If Hamilton was the smartest of them, Lafayette was the best.

And Jack Laurens? Jack Laurens was That Foolish Boy Will Get Himself Killed One of These Days. Jack Laurens was the dreamer, the most willing and ready to die for some half-cocked idealist’s illusion of freedom and justice. _Ready to throw his life away for nothing,_ said a snide voice in his mind that sounded a great deal like his father.

He didn’t mind. It wasn’t as though the life that awaited him after the war held much appeal. If he was going to die in the war, he wanted only one thing: for his death to matter. For it to be, if not enough to make a difference on its own, enough to serve as catalyst.

He wanted to ask Alexander, sometimes, what all his pestering for a command was _for._ and what he intended to do with it once he got it. Glory was all well and good—Laurens craved it as much as any man in the army, and more than some. But he didn’t need to be a general, didn’t need other men to yield to him to prove his own worth. Alexander needed…Laurens didn’t know, but sometimes he wondered if he’d ever find it.

Laurens, on the other hand, was curiously satisfied. He had a purpose, a goal, useful work, and if he sometimes felt death at his heels, at least for now he was quick enough to stay a step or two ahead.

And in the meantime, there were compensations.

Laurens’ chief compensation stalked ahead of him, never letting him keep up. Even at his breakneck walking pace, he moved somehow stiffly, as if he had been wounded. He muttered under his breath as he walked, half-formed protestations of fury at the General, God, and the world.

“—treating me like I’ll break, as if these nonentities could ever…I could deal with worse trials than this in my sleep—hell. I have done so.”

Then a few moments later:

“I don’t understand why he…”

Laurens was tired of this, and more, he was freezing, and camp depressed him. If he were a better friend, he would let Alex fume, but no one had ever said he suffered from a surfeit of patience.

“Why the General _what,_ Alexander? Loves you?”

The expression Alexander threw over his shoulder at him was so comically hurt Laurens had to smile. “What nonsense. He doesn’t—“

Rumors or no rumors, if Henry Laurens had once looked at Jack the way Washington looked at Alexander, he would have known himself the most cherished of sons. “He does. And no, this is not an argument I will be having with you.”

“Fine,” said Alexander, scathing. “His Excellency looks upon me as the son he cannot have. I still don’t see why he has to bother me about it. I don’t need that sort of affection from him, or anyone else. I don’t need him to protect me, and if he lets these ridiculous rumors continue, he’ll hurt not only me but himself.”

“What would you have him do, then?” asked Laurens, genuinely curious. “He cannot win. If he says nothing, it looks like he’s hiding something. If he denies it, it gives them credibility because he looks like he’s lying.”

“Washington doesn’t lie. Everyone knows that. If he says it’s not true, that should be enough, and if Gates and Conway and all the rest keep spreading the lies, they look like the petty powermongers they are.”

Laurens paused. “Would it be the worst thing in the world if…”

Alexander turned on his heel. “ _What._ ”

He swallowed. _Once more into the breach._ “What if it’s true?”

Alexander threw back his head and laughed. “It’s not.”

“Hamilton—“

“Jack. It’s not. Come on, you know it’s not. I mean, the _General?_ He would never do such a thing, and even if he did unbend long enough to father a bastard--ugh, I did not need that image burned into my soul for the rest of eternity--there’s no way I could be his progeny. We are absolutely nothing alike.”

Laurens very carefully did not say anything.

“You don’t think—oh, come on, no. We’re the opposite of each other. And even if we weren’t—even if there were something to this nonsense, which there clearly isn’t—he would have told me. God, can you imagine that interview? He’d…call me into his office, all stiff and earnest, and tell me that although he regrets his absence from my entire life up to this point, our connection must be acknowledged, or something else as horrifyingly awkward. He would never keep such a thing from me. You know it and I know it “

He knew he wasn’t imagining the faint note of wistfulness in his friend’s voice. _Alexander, you sure have thought about this a lot._ But he didn’t want to be cruel. “You didn’t see him after Schuylkill, Alex.” God, what a nightmare that had been. Even through the haze of his own grief, Laurens had been able to see the general’s agony at the false report of Alexander’s death. He looked…like all the light had gone out of the world. Like he would never know hope again. Laurens had recognized that despair; he knew it well.

Hamilton pounced. “See! You have just proven my point for me! If it were true—would that not have been the perfect time to tell me? I had just returned from the dead! He had a chance to tell all, to make things right after he thought me lost, and he didn’t. Either it’s not true, or…or he doesn’t want it to be. Not that that would matter, because it isn’t.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Jack lied. He wasn’t sure at all, but his orders from the general were to calm Alexander down, and anything else wouldn’t accomplish that goal. 

Hamilton backed up a step so that they were walking side-by-side again. “Come on, our exile has gone on long enough. Let me go make the proper pious noises at Himself. I really don’t know what people are talking about when they say he shows me such preference—of late it seems my very name irritates him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is probably clear by now, this has spiralled entirely out of my control and is a series now. I would suggest keeping an eye on the series page for updates, as I don't feel beholden to chronology and may be posting one-shots in between chapters.
> 
> Feedback of all sorts welcomed, here or on Tumblr at herowndeliverance. I do love prompts, too! I'd be really interested to hear what you think of this version of Laurens...I am not at all sure I captured him well. Anything good about this portrayal is heavily influenced by the writings of Tumblr user john-laurens, whose meta is brilliant. Any errors are, as ever, my own.
> 
> (Also, I promise the cat shows up soon. It's just...he's a cat. He takes his own time.)
> 
> Thank you again for all your wonderful comments! I am astonished and gratified


	4. make this moment last (that's plenty)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um. Sorry about the wait on this. I could make several excuses involving grad school, but really I blame the cat.
> 
> Thanks to scioscribe for beta, and to everyone who listened to me ramble on about this as it grew in the telling.

“Hamilton had no more gratitude than a Cat. If you give a hungry famished Cat a slice of meat, she will not accept it as a Gift; she will snatch at it by Force, and express in her countenance and air, that she is under no obligation to you; that she got it by her own cunning and activity, and that you are a fool for giving it to her.”

\--John Adams

 

Dawn had just barely broken over the camp when Martha adjusted her coat around her shoulders and stole out of the house with neither servant nor guard to attend her. In her drab day dress she might be a servant herself but for the fine make of her clothes, which would not be noticeable from a distance. She might be anyone, and she was grateful for that brief moment of anonymity, something that had been in short supply for her of late.

Martha Washington had been a person of consequence since her first marriage, when the Custis wealth catapulted her into a sphere she had never dreamed of entering. In Virginia she was known, for herself, for her husband, and for her children, and she’d never minded.

The level of sheer adulation she had received since George took his command, though, bordered on the ridiculous. People lined the streets to see her carriage pass. She had written to a friend,  _ as if I had been a very great somebody _ , after the first time, but she had meant,  _ as if I were a queen _ , and that knowledge was a lead weight in her gut. Indeed, everyone seemed to treat her like a noble lady in a story. The boys, from George’s staff aides down to common soldiers, called her ‘Lady Washington,’ which Martha found rather adorable of them, or would if the implications weren’t so serious. She had never felt less like a lady than she did that winter in Valley Forge at the side of her husband, trying to bring some semblance of gentility to a war camp.

Truth be told, she found the endeavor a futile one at best. But her presence there seemed to comfort George, and after all, what else could she do but try? What skills did she have but those of wife and mother, of manager and hostess?

They’d fought about her joining him for the winters, when George first took up his command. They rarely fought anymore, not so many years into their marriage; they respected each other too much not to listen to each other’s counsel. But that particular fight had been vicious; George insisting that he was not going to leave her vulnerable to being taken hostage by the enemy, and Martha refusing to sit at home useless when George was in peril. The spectre of Patsy hung heavy over that argument; neither of them daring to say her name but both of them knowing the other meant, _we have lost so very much already, my love, and I will not sit idle and helpless while we lose more._

Martha won, as she usually did when it got as far as a fight. Part of her, though, wished she had not, which was not usual. Martha liked work. She liked to be of use. What use was it to mediate between Caty Greene and Lucy Knox when they got into a squabble, or to entertain the officers each night while the common men sat starving in their huts? But George kept saying he needed her, when he’d tried to dissuade her from coming in the first place. He said she was indispensable.

_ We must survive this winter, _ he told her,  _ and your work is what gives me the best chance to do that and hold my command. _

Martha was not a stupid woman. She knew about the ambitions of Congress; of Horatio Gates and all the others who wanted the burden her husband bore with such equanimity. He tried to shield it from her, for reasons Martha could not comprehend; she had, after all, been doing politics in her own way since she married Daniel as a girl.  _ Let the vultures in Congress have your command _ , she wanted to say, even now.  _ Let us forget it all and go home to Jacky and Nelly and the babies. _

But because she was not a stupid woman, she held her peace. George would not, after all, leave his son. The others of his family would be all right no matter what happened; they had connections, powerful names of their own, places that would shelter them should George be killed or forced to resign in disgrace. Their dear marquis, a stranger in this land, had the gratitude of the whole country and the knack of being liked by everyone who met him. Of the boys, he would grieve the most, should anything happen to George, but he would be well.

Alexander, whom Martha supposed she must still call Hamilton, had neither the gratitude of the country nor the knack of being loved. Nor—and she knew this pained George most of all—did he have a name that would mean anything to the world. Alexander had only his considerable talents and his willingness to yoke his prospects to George’s. If George fell, so would Alexander, and Martha had no doubt they both knew it.

Not that George would have been any less committed to the cause if he had never discovered his son. They had talked about the depredations, the arrogance of the mother country, for years before this. George would win freedom for this land, or he would die. But Alexander’s existence changed things, for it meant Martha could never again argue,  _ bend a little. Yield, for the sake of your family. _

Men were strange about their sons. Not for the first time, Martha was glad that her own Jack had so little ambition; that Daniel had ensured he would never want for anything. George found this incomprehensible. Martha found it restful. Alexander Hamilton, no matter his many sterling qualities, was not restful.

Perhaps, though, this relationship, of all the ones she was trying to smooth over, could be something that would last. Perhaps this was a gift she could give her husband, when it seemed she could offer him nothing else.

It was in pursuit of this goal that Martha went on her morning walk. She had been doing this for her own sake of late; first thing in the morning being the only time no one clamored for her attention, but young McHenry had helpfully informed her, after a little gentle probing on Martha’s part, that Hamilton had a similar habit, taking a few moments for himself before George chained him to his desk for the rest of his very long day. She saw him daily, of course, at supper with the other officers, where he was a uniformly charming and gracious companion who revealed nothing of himself. She wanted to see if she could know a bit more of him than the face he showed the world.

As it happened, it did not take her long at all to find him. Not five minutes after she had departed from the house, a slender figure in the blue coat of the Continental Army bounded up to her.

“Madam!” he cried, sketching a perfect but hasty bow. “I have been looking for you!”

She smiled, quickening her pace so as to catch up to Hamilton, who immediately fell in at her right hand. “Have you indeed, Colonel?”

“Indeed, madam,” he said cheerfully. “For you see, Dr. McHenry was telling me you often take a morning walk out this way, and we—the lads and I, I mean—thought it best you should be escorted.”

Martha could barely suppress a groan. She must really be getting old, to be outmaneuvered by James McHenry of all people. “Have you made up a duty roster for this purpose, then, Colonel?” she asked, trying and failing to keep her irritation from her voice.

Hamilton picked up on it at once. “You know His Excellency would not wish you to be out here alone, madam,” he said in that firm, almost scolding tone young men thought they could use on older women with impunity. It irked her.

“Did you draw lots for the chore, then?”

Hamilton sounded almost hurt when he responded. “I did not consider it a chore, madam, but an honor. You may be assured I will not disturb you, should it be your wish to walk in solitude. I can go on ahead.”

Martha was at once ashamed.  _ He’s just a boy who wants to help, and you were looking for him, after all. _ “My sincere apologies, Colonel. I didn’t mean I didn’t want your company. I merely dislike being—handled, is all, and since I know you too value  your privacy, I worry I am an inconvenience for you.”

Hamilton grinned at her. “’Tis hardly an inconvenience, madam, to take a turn about the camp with a beautiful woman like yourself.”

“Oh, stop,” Martha laughed, feeling her cheeks color the way they had when she was a girl and Daniel paid her a compliment. “I am a grandmother, you know. You are an impudent boy, to sass your elders in such a manner.”

Now it was Hamilton whose cheeks colored. “A grandmother, madam? Surely not! I mean to say, I did not…I did not even know you had children.”

She allowed herself to smile at him—a mother’s smile, not the stiff one the general’s wife kept for the officers.  _ Clever boy, you delight me _ , that smile said, and she could almost feel Hamilton thaw a little, his limbs loosening.

_ Well, that’s one question answered.  _ His mother had adored him, at least. It assuaged Martha’s guilt, slightly. “My son married very young,” she explained, eager to move the conversation away from the question of just how many children she had. She’d mourned her babies years ago, but the loss of her youngest was still raw, no matter that they’d expected it. She did not think she could endure George’s son’s pity.

Hamilton eagerly latched onto this change of subject, and she passed a pleasant quarter hour telling him about Jacky and Nelly, about dear Lizzie and the baby, whom they’d named for her and for Patsy.

“She is hoping for a boy next,” Martha said. “Jack says they’ll name him for my husband, if they’re so lucky; George claimed not to be touched by that but I saw his eyes mist at the letter, mark my words.” Martha trailed off, a little annoyed at herself for allowing this to go on for so long. Here she was, trying to get to know this boy, and she’d spent the entire time prattling on about her family, the family he should have been part of.

“For the General and not for his own father?” asked Hamilton. “They must be very close, then.”

“George is his father,” Martha snapped, as much to ward off the truth as to correct, for the truth was they never had been close at all. “Forgive me, Colonel, as you have hit on a sore point--it’s just that George has always done all that is proper for a guardian, and it is frustrating to hear, as I often have, that he acted from any motive other than that of love.”

“I am certain the General would never behave improperly toward a child in his care,” said Hamilton, as if to placate her.

“No, but he loved them,” Martha explained. It seemed very important to her that Alexander know that, even though she knew she was saying too much. “Loves. It is only that they...well. George wanted Jacky to want more, I suspect. To take interest in more things...he used to buy him books and they would sit in the library and molder.” She looked at this boy, who was everything Jacky had never wanted to be, and her throat closed. She laughed as though to cover it. “George used to take him to the theatre, which he adores, and Jack would fall asleep when he wasn’t making a nuisance of himself. It drove George mad.”  _ You would have taken his books, _ Martha thought.  _ You would have been the hope of the family. _

“In any case,” she said, hoping her unease at the thought didn’t show on her face, “I am rambling. It’s much easier now the babies are here--they can talk about how much they dote on them, and neither will ever grow tired of that subject. So you see it was a vindication of sorts for him, to be remembered in that way"

Hamilton laughed. “I must admit, madam, that I have trouble picturing His Excellency as a doting grandpapa. He is so—“ and the boy’s mouth snapped shut as he realized his error. “Dignified,” he sputtered.

“You recovered well there, Colonel Hamilton, but come now, you can say what you mean in front of me. Dour, perhaps? Stiff? Taciturn? Grim?”

By this time Hamilton’s soldier’s composure had broken entirely, and he was doubled over, wheezing with laughter. “Madam, I beg you, please, I have—the, the highest—regard—for the General’s character…”

“Of course you do, Colonel,” Martha said brightly, “but even you must admit he does not have your, ah, let us say zest, nor are his feelings easily glimpsed by one who has not known him long.”

“I have never understood why people say that,” Hamilton said once his spasms of mirth had passed. “I have always found him easy enough to read.” He said this with the unshakeable confidence of someone who could not conceive of there being anything more to a person than what he had already discerned.

“Have you, now?” asked Martha. “And what is it you see in my husband’s soul, Colonel Hamilton?”

From the trepidation in his face, Hamilton realized he had stepped on to dangerous ground. “Madam—“

“Be at ease, Colonel,” said Martha. “You are after all George’s principal and most confidential aide, as he never ceases to remind us. It is quite possible that in a way, you know him better than anyone.”

Hamilton, to his credit, did not try to deflect the praise or demur. The rest of George’s staff, the kind of gentlemen that graced Virginia dining rooms, the kind she had raised her son to be, would have said that what they did for George was mere busywork and praised the talents of the rest of the family. Hamilton merely nodded. She liked him the better for that.

“I see—hunger, in him, madam.”

Martha Washington, who had buried a husband and three children, knew hardship of a sort, but never had she wanted for anything physical, at least not until very recently. She had learned that you could tell a lot about a person by how they behaved when they were hungry, not merely having skipped a meal, but the sort of hunger that came from never having enough. Of Alexander’s closest friends, it was actually the Laurens boy who bore it the worst, which had surprised Martha at first. He became snappish and angry, railing at Congress—at his father—until even Hamilton advised him to be still. The marquis bore hardship the way he bore everything: as though it were yet another grand adventure. Martha would have found it foolish, were his nobility not so clearly genuine.

In this arena as in so many others, Hamilton was the best of them all, and it quite broke Martha’s heart. He alone never complained of their meager rations; applying himself to them with the same grim purpose with which he did combat drills with the men. He never skipped a meal, but nor did he allow himself to partake in any of the little luxuries which Martha had carefully put aside for those she wished to cultivate—every inquiry she made in that direction was kindly but flatly refused. Unlike many of George’s staff, who served as volunteers and had their own means, Hamilton lived on nothing but his pay, and from what she could tell he needed every penny.

She would have been insulted by that description of her husband, had it come from any other man. Not Hamilton, who knew hunger as an old friend.

“Do you, Colonel?” she asked. “And what is it you believe he hungers for?”

“That I do not know,” the boy replied. “I admit it has puzzled me, for when we win he could be king, but he seems to abhor the very thought.”

Hamilton was perhaps the only staff officer who would say  _ when we win _ with such certainty. She thought it was a boy’s enthusiasm; the sort of blind faith that had propelled their Marquis halfway across the world. But he was too certain for it to be faith at all.

“He does,” Martha told him. “Abhor the thought. He did not even want the command, you know. Didn’t think himself equal to it.”

Hamilton snorted. Muttered something under his breath.

_ No tact, our boy. _ “I’m sorry, Colonel, what was that you said?”

But Hamilton was rescued, for just then there was a truly frightful whimper that emanated from a barren grove of trees to the side. Hamilton started, and immediately took off in that direction.

“It is only a cat,” Martha called, walking at a more sedate pace after him. She knew the noise well, cats having tended to like her and make her their companion. George had his hounds, which Martha supposed were fine enough creatures, but she preferred keeping company with cats for as long as they cared to stay—one could never really have a cat, after all, not the way it had you. “It will either run away and evade whatever’s chasing it, or…ah.”

Alexander knelt in front of the bush, holding himself still, as a pathetic-looking creature crawled out of it. One could barely even call it a cat, really; it was a small matted ball of brown fur, clearly half starved. Thorns studded its fur from whatever it had been trying to avoid, and it couldn’t stand upright.

“Hey,” Alexander said, in a gentle voice she had never before heard from him. “Hey there, little one, what’s wrong with your—" and he grabbed for the creature.

Martha could have told him it was a mistake, but it was too late. At once the cat darted back into the bushes.

“Hey, stop it!” said Alexander in a very different tone. “I was just trying to help.”

“Peace, Colonel,” she said. “You’ve scared him. Now you must wait for him to come to you, should you wish to save him.”

“I can’t,” said Hamilton, sounding irritated. “The day’s correspondence awaits.”

“Cats do not live on a soldier’s time,” Martha said. “It will take days, most likely, and blandishments. You will have to use that charm of yours, and some food wouldn’t go amiss.”

Hamilton got to his feet, dusted off his breeches. “I suppose,” he said, “it would be a waste of food, when we have so little.”

But what Martha heard was Patsy’s high voice, when a kitten had followed her home once.  _ Mama, mama, can we keep him? _

“I don’t know about that,” Martha said. “I’ve found small bits of effort here and there can pay off in ways you never expected.”

**Author's Note:**

> If LMM can smush together the elections of 1800 and 1804, I can conflate the entire period between 1755 and 1757, and say Washington took R&R in the Caribbean after the Braddock disaster. The thought of him conceiving Alexander under James Hamilton's nose pleases me. Don't expect the timeline to get any more accurate during the course of this fic.
> 
> Also, fair warning: this is brought to you by me taking my original prompt and figuring out ways to make it even angstier by shoving in as many parallels to the musical as possible. Buckle up, kids. We're in for a bit of a bumpy ride.


End file.
